Dispatches from America
by sierrac
Summary: Seconds, American relatives, and plenty of Prohibition drinking – Mary and Richard honeymoon in America, and Richard turns their adventures into a column for his paper.
1. Statues

**AN: I am putting the finishing touches on the next chapter of **_**Haxby**_** and will probably update tomorrow, but I wanted to do something fun and short and distracting and this came to mind. Pretend the Christmas Special never happened and Richard and Mary got married in July as planned. **

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July, 1919 – RMS _Mauretania_: Statues

The first thing you will hear about reaching New York harbor is how glorious the Statue of Liberty stands, a beacon of opportunity to the new Americans crowding the balconies in third class; a hint of freedom to the tourists in second; the promise of adventure for those of us lucky enough to be travelling first. But no one talks about the ships.

There are vessels of every kind crowding around Manhattan, this busy hub of American commerce. From the tugboats that guide luxury liners in and out of the port daily to the lowly commuter ferries, long immune to the sea-worn charms of the French woman with the torch, the Hudson and the East Rivers are busier than the traffic around Piccadilly on the day of a Royal parade. The sight of such unabashed trade is glorious, something we Londoners are not treated to with any regularity on our dry riverbed of the Thames. This is a city of business, all the ships seem to declare, a flag that flies invisible alongside the stars and stripes banner they all bear. As they zoom to and fro, loaded with grocery items for the city, or imports from Europe destined for the heartland, or tobacco scheduled to reach a shop near you next week, the dizzying pattern will elicit anxiety. What if they crash into each other? But somehow, dear reader, they glide through summer haze rising from the water without incident, and you will know the chaos of this city is guided by some guardian angel.

We were drawn to America for many reasons, The Lady and I, but it was this myth of American industry that primarily captured my imagination. This is a country where fortune smiles upon anyone who dare seek her out; where there is no such thing as self-invention, because everyone arrives with a fresh start. For her part, my new bride is seeking out the American side of her ancestry – and from the Americans I am acquainted with in England, the promise this encounter holds for high entertainment is worth the journey alone. When the English aristocracy meets the American relatives, I intend to be in the audience with a good brandy in hand, ready for the curtain to rise. Although in America, I am told, the drink is beer. That may take some getting used to.

For one curious enough to seek her out, I believe America holds innumerable charms; our fellow passengers certainly seem to think so. The Lady has been busy gathering recommendations from shipboard companions, emerging with a notebook full what and what not to see. To her horror, the itinerary appears to be rather packed with Americana we are told we simply cannot miss. Naturally it is the suggestions of everything we should avoid that I, as your dedicated Publisher, plan to pursue first.

Before we get to that, our ship must come into port. The Lady watches with distaste as the passengers on deck break out in enthusiastic waves when we pass enormous green sandaled feet – even the premier class cannot resist the thrill of land after a week at sea. "Never have toes been so heralded," I am told with a quirked eyebrow and a dazzling gaze. "Never have they been the mascot of an entire country," I reply.

Yes I think we will like it here, this land of traffic and trade and toes. The Lady looks ready to hop on the _Lusitania _as the ship passes us on the way out, bound for England; I glance around for a lifesaver should she decide to defect. But our stopover is only for a few months, and we will board the_ Lusitania_ soon enough. For now New York beckons in all its confused glory – if only our ship can find a dock in this infernal congestion.

R.C.


	2. Automats

July, 1919 – New York I: Automats

The shops are closed, the offices make do with scant business to conduct; during the day, New York is a wasteland. But when night falls in the summer, its citizens come out to play. The sidewalk is abuzz with people coming and going on such urgent business, or so they believe; for either it is urgent business or idle pleasure on Fifth Avenue after midnight.

Groups of revelers come and go in taxicabs, ducking into the Plaza for a cocktail or staggering home after one too many. Vendors line the streets selling roses or peanuts or umbrellas in case of a sudden summer storm. Couples stroll, peering in through jewelry shop windows on their way to basement cabarets. In all its light and shadow, it is a very festive scene.

In search of entertainment after sleeping the day away, for there is no other way to endure the heat, The Lady and I find ourselves in need of dinner and cool mint julep, not necessarily in that order.

The Lady is drawn in by the blazing lights of an all-night cafeteria, a kind of café peculiar to New York called an automat. These so-called restaurants resemble factories more than food halls, with walls of automated machinery that dispense dishes at the drop of a coin. They are a more a marvel of refrigeration technology than of culinary excellence, though in this fast-paced city they also represent convenience to the eternally busy. The Lady assures me her New York friends find this a perfectly acceptable venue for a late-night bite, and that such places exemplify the meeting of high and low that so characterizes fashionable society at the moment.

I follow her inside and produce the necessary two nickels. She watches with unconcealed delight as the tiny door swings open to reveal an ordinary egg salad sandwich wrapped in wax paper – I can only conclude that a lifetime of silver trays has left The Lady with an exotic attraction to cheap chromium. "Your turn," she says with enthusiasm. I select a roast beef sandwich and cannot help but peer past the glass into the kitchen behind, where cooks in white uniforms feverishly work to produce these generic dishes as if they were on a workshop floor. America excels at this kind of standardization, and I realize the automat is merely an evolution of the Model T - identical parts assembled into a predictable product equals profit. As we sit at the imitation stone table on mass-produced bent wood chairs, I have to chuckle at how wonderful and paradoxically horrendous innovation can be.

The sandwiches are predictably lackluster, but we are too diverted by our fellow patrons to take much notice. The Lady is of course the best dressed in the room, despite the mercury reading, but by no means is she the most outlandish – the competition in that arena is fierce. We are treated to a parade of ridiculous hats, polka dot fabrics, clashing colors, high hemlines. The men wear audacious collared shirts and pinstripes in all directions. No matter what time of year, New York is a stage, and people conduct themselves as if the spotlight is solely on them.

We try to ascertain the occupations of these characters that populate an automat on Fifth Avenue at midnight – the policeman in uniform is obvious; the actress in the evening gown slightly less so. People of more unsavory professions are also present, though I keep my mouth shut as The Lady surmises the man with the feather in his hat and the woman on his arm is some kind of 'talent agent.'

The absence of the city's elite means we are liberated from the Empire Room – Sherry's – Jack's circuit of chic places and free to pursue whatever adventures we choose. Somehow the distance from home makes these bohemian cafes all the more appealing, and I wonder if we would be such keen observers were we to find ourselves in a similar setting in London. Truthfully, I doubt we would have such interesting company to study.

R.C.


	3. Heatwaves

_**Haxby **_**update tomorrow everyone. We're down to the wire – only two chapters to go! In the meantime, back to America... **

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August, 1919 – New York II: Heatwaves

It was The Lady's idea to be married in July, so that – and I quote with the impeccable honesty you have come to expect from your Publisher – "we can be out of England for August." I am not likely to forgive this for many years.

Central Park, New York's sole patch of greenery, stretches before me as I sit at my typewriter on the 21st floor, and I can see the heat rising into the atmosphere in colossal waves, not unlike the kind that break against the cliffs of Fast Castle in the middle of high tide. The air is so dense with humidity that we might as well be swimming, and I resolve that England is the _only_ place to be in August.

The Lady reclines, half-dead, on the sofa; the oscillating fan sits dormant after she concluded that its pushing around of the thick, hot air was not better, only different. I vacillate, rather like the fan if it were turned on, between an open window and a closed one – here, neither breeze nor shade seems to alter the temperature in our rooms in the slightest.

We Northerners are not built for a New England summer; our blood is too thick for this climate. New Yorkers seem to share this affliction, and most have the good sense to abandon the city like a sinking ship for the cooler coastal climes of Long Island and Newport. We will soon follow in their footsteps, although I concede the empty city is not bereft of charm.

The mass exodus leaves the city to the workers alone, and New York in August becomes the paradise of the employee, where the clerk and the secretary have free reign. You will find these colorless people suddenly alive in a city all their own for the eight weeks of summer between the independence celebrations of July and Labor Day in September. Miraculously, the fashionable frock at all the best nightclubs becomes a shade of hand-me-down brown, and every young bank assistant walks the avenues with a carnation in his boutonniere and a bounce in his step, looking forward to a night of dancing with the flower shop girl at the elite watering holes usually off-limits during the cooler months. The city slows down yet these individuals speed up, the piece of the American dream suddenly within their reach making them impervious to the heat.

The laborers are granted a reprieve when the bosses are away, and the many construction sites that dot the city are idle from the hour of high noon right through to dusk. Having reinvented the notion of a long lunch, these workers also redefine the traditional quitting time – one would pity the employer were he not lounging in the deckchair of a hotel porch until September.

Chefs at all the best restaurants have too much time on their hands and experiment, with apparently no concern for their remaining customers, resulting in some rather unusual combinations of summer ingredients. Facing empty café tables, the waiters nip at the good wine and rattle off the oddest specials with a slur in their speech – one peculiar dish The Lady dared to try was halibut in strawberry sauce. She would not recommend it.

With no residents to assist, the doormen and bellboys form betting syndicates and poker tournaments between the grand hotels and apartment houses. Lured by the possibility of a cool basement, I joined the team of the Plaza for an afternoon game of five-card draw. It was not any cooler, but winning ten dollars made it seem so. I would challenge any tycoon away from the boardroom for the month to face off with a New Jersey elevator operator holding two pair and refusing to raise – even the most experienced negotiator would meet his match in the toughened population of New York in the summer.

The die-hard residents who remain at the height of the heat are indeed as tough as their reputation, and frankly The Lady and I cannot compete. The Lady would trade this asphalt furnace for tea and tennis by the sea any day, despite the social obligations that come with such appointments, and I will be just as happy to depart for Newport next week – I suspect the elevator boy wants his money back.

R.C.


	4. Roadhouses

**AN: Thanks to everyone who has been leaving reviews – your support means a lot! I realize this fic is kind of the odd man out, not quite romance, not quite adventure****. I don't really know where it fits in, but I do know how fun it is to write, and your reviews make it even better.  
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August 1919 – Connecticut: Roadhouses

For those of you under the impression that we embarked on our honeymoon journey alone, you would be quite wrong. No, there was a third passenger far more important than The Lady or your Publisher to board the _Mauretania _in Southampton, and we are most pleased to announce our new arrival. Her name is Isotta Fraschini, a beautiful straight-8 automobile in granny smith green that is, appropriately, the apple of my eye.

She came over with us in the cargo hold in what I am convinced were far more luxurious surroundings than our own above deck, with eminently suitable companions. The bright yellow model upholstered in leopard skin to her right was destined for one Miss Gloria Swanson of California; to her left; a Rolls Royce in burgundy meant for Mr. George Vanderbilt of North Carolina. And unlike our neighbors on B deck, I can only presume the Isotta's did not suffer from sea sickness.

Already I have received several offers to buy the car from complete strangers on the street, for a price higher than I paid. So if your eyes have wandered over from the financial page, may I suggest a business for you: importing luxury vehicles to America. While there is plenty of money to go around, there is clearly a shortage of flamboyant cars. But do note that should you succeed in such a venture, this Publisher expects a ten percent cut.

Despite the many offers, I am obliged to refuse them all. Just as you cannot sell a family member – I learned this many years ago when I tried to exchange my cousin for licorice in a deal gone awry with the neighborhood shopkeep – you cannot sell an Isotta Fraschini.

It is too dear to us, regardless. The Lady is rather taken with the ostrich leather interior; the Publisher is infatuated by the top speed 90 miles an hour, a terrifying prospect on some of New England's postal roads that have not been renovated since the days of Paul Revere. And while I would never admit to exceeding the advertised speed limits, my enthusiasm for the aptitude of this magnificent car may bear some responsibility for our current, unplanned detour in the wilds of Connecticut.

Like most new parents, The Lady and I believe our child can do no wrong, even in the midst of a tantrum. So for the past three miles we have been studiously ignoring the fantastic clouds of smoke pluming from the engine, unconvinced that this is not part of normal vehicle operations. Perhaps the billowing fog is only to announce the Isotta's arrival with the true fanfare it deserves – in the grand style of a great steam engine. I am forced to change my mind when the rattling begins.

I pull off to the side and the Isotta refuses to go one rotation further. We must go on alone, and we walk at least four miles down the dusty road to the local town. The setting is one of many new hubs to spring up along the country's byways, catering not to the local population but to the motorists passing through, an ingenious enterprise for a captive audience. Consisting of a single gas station and a lively roadhouse emanating with the sound of a screeching saxophone, this center seems especially adept at bagging drivers on their way out of New York in search of excitement before a month with the stodgy upstate relatives. The inn is simple but the patrons are not - this is the road to Newport in the summer, after all, and the temporary inhabitants are exactly what you would expect; I even spot another Isotta in the parking lot.

Arriving at the gas station and consulting with the mechanic, a local resident named Bif, I jump aboard his truck meant for towing while The Lady spots someone she knows and opts to stay behind at the bar. Fortunately she is prepared for such an occasion, the pages of_ Vogue_ having helpfully suggested outfits suitable for roadside stops. Coral is apparently the most appropriate color for such adventures; lavender is a particularly gauche choice, in case you were wondering.

Returning to our 5,9 liter carriage, Bif declares this a textbook example of overheating. The Isotta is as bad a match for the local climate as we are. As he pulls the car into town he informs me the repair could take anywhere from three hours to three days, and my optimism for American efficiency is dashed on the spot.

Rhode Island's Gold Coast calls to us on the horizon but we are here at a brassy Connecticut inn. As the Isotta sits in the garage, The Lady and I dance the night away with shoes dusty from the highway and drinks too strong to drive after anyway, neither of us minding if we reach Newport tomorrow or never.

R.C.


	5. Grandmothers

August 1919 – Newport I: Grandmothers

After two days' delay – Bif the mechanic was not the brightest light bulb in the chandelier – The Lady and I finally arrive at her true ancestral home. No, not the ancient estate in Yorkshire. Our destination is a seaside mansion the American side of her family built twenty years ago on the Newport coast, resplendent inside and out with marble so sparkling new it is as if the earth just manufactured it yesterday, and gilt so untarnished that it resembles solid gold.

This neighborhood, if one could call it that, is most peculiar. The most magnificent of mansions compete for attention, one after another along Bellevue Avenue, right to the end of the peninsula. Unlike the estates in England, or even most in America, they exist within close proximity to the next; each has gates and gardens, but the grand houses are situated many to a block like they are on Fifth Avenue. Yet we are not in a bustling city, but a quiet seaside port. It is as if the French nobility had built their chateaux right next to each other over the course of three city blocks, smack in the middle of the Loire Valley.

There are many styles to choose from, here in the summer refuge of the elite – Victorian, Neoclassical, Tudor, Miscellaneous. The one for which we are headed, called Cliffside, is in the fashion of a Greek temple, with the requisite fluted columns and arched windows. The house is perfectly symmetrical, and seems to go for miles in either direction.

The Lady has been giving me an overview of the family history, little of which is sticking in my mind, though it strikes me as a classic American story. There is Grandmother, of course, and several cousins that come and go throughout the summer. Grandmother is from Cincinatti, in the middle of the country, where Grandfather traded in dry-goods, rising from clerk in a small merchant firm to controlling distribution systems for the entire region. Upon his death, Grandmother came East, and is renowned for her lavish parties. She only resides in Newport eight weeks of the year, and the rest of the time she lives in New York.

Pulling up to the wide driveway that curves elegantly from the road to the house, we park the Isotta in the shade of a great elm tree and ring the bell. We are greeted at the double-height cast bronze doors not by a uniformed butler, nor by the customary footman to help with the luggage. A lone woman with a tremendous smile opens the doors accompanied by two enormous great danes at her side.

"Hello, Grandmother," The Lady says as she is enveloped, against her will, in an enthusiastic embrace by the tiny American woman with the shocking red hair.

"None of this 'Grandmother' stuff, do you hear? My friends call me 'Sassy,'" she explains.

"Oh," The Lady protests, not quite able to form the word, "I couldn't possibly."

My proffered hand is batted away and I receive a similarly spirited hug. "And you must be the rich guy my granddaughter married," Grandmother says with a grin. "Thank god – if I meet one more down-on-his-luck aristocrat, I'll shoot myself. Or him!" she jokes. "You _are _rich, aren't you?"

The Lady looks horrified. "Well…" I begin, unsure exactly what kind of test this is.

"Because you wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of my Winchester 51!" Her laugh is an infectious high trill, and I am rather taken with this Midwesterner who lives up to her nickname.

"Were I a down-on-his-luck aristocrat," I reply, unable to suppress a chuckle, "I would thank you to shoot." The Lady manages a smile, and the obvious effort behind it only adds to our mirth.

"We're going to have fun," Grandmother says as she pushes past us to the car, followed by the dogs. "You'll have to get settled on your own; I sent the staff away for the afternoon. Sometimes having all those people fussing just gets on my nerves!"

Grabbing a large suitcase from the boot with less effort than one would expect given her small stature, Sassy offers it to me before taking one herself. "But don't worry, dear," she says as she hands The Lady a lightweight train case, "we'll manage."


	6. Parties

August 1919 – Newport II: Parties

Grandmother is a live wire, I have decided, and, like the long fuse on a comedy bomb, she is prone to sparks in advance of a tremendous explosion of energy.

The servants are accustomed to her occasional outbursts before a party, for though she is renowned for such events, she is especially ill-suited to the meticulousness of planning. Sassy does not believe in perfection, she tells me as she sneaks up behind the butler progressing along the dining table with a brass ruler to align the cutlery. "It's bad luck," she explains, deliberately turning a fork askew.

The butler's chest deflates as he exhales in a silent snort; he is resigned to her mercurial demands, but that does not mean he has to like them. Grandmother catches him and rolls her eyes in an uncanny iteration of the look The Lady occasionally casts in my direction in moments of exasperation; I briefly wonder what I have done to offend, before I recover my senses. "What is our one rule, George?" she asks the butler sharply.

"Don't be stuffy," he replies through gritted teeth.

This is actually not a dining table at all, but a battleground, from which Grandmother has been waging a war on traditional society for the last three decades. Her weapons are wit, charm, and an overwhelming lack of pretension that can only stem from her roots in the supposed 'backwater' of Cincinnati, a slur which her enemies will never let her forget.

"When I first came East," she tells The Lady and me over breakfast one morning, "there was nothing but the New York 400, all established old families with old money. Dwindling old money, I might add!" she says in a huff. "The number was determined by the guest list of the Astor's annual party. Mrs. Astor ruled with an iron fist, and her ballroom had no room for the likes of us."

Her story finds a sympathetic ear with me; I think The Lady merely admires the determined spirit behind the struggle.

"So what do I do?" Sassy asks us with a laugh. "I build a ballroom for eight hundred! I invite all the four hundred from the Astor's shindig, plus four hundred of my set. And the old guard are so pleased to have some new people to talk to that they stop attending Mrs. Astor's ball and start coming to mine."

And so the first shot was fired. Mrs. Astor countered with an exclusive afternoon tea for debutantes, Grandmother replied with a raucous cocktail hour for young gentleman. You can imagine which was more popular, with both groups.

Mrs. Astor lobbied the opera committee to refuse Grandmother a box, Grandmother joined forces with a Vanderbilt to found a new opera company. Mrs. Astor held chamber music concerts in the garden; Sassy blasted the neighbors with ragtime. Sassy started giving intimate Sunday dinners for just eight of her prized associates; Mrs. Astor went a step further and hosted the most exclusive Sunday dinners in town, with a chair Mr. Astor and the other for herself. We'll call that a win for Grandmother.

Sassy was the Wild West to Mrs. Astor's Versailles – and do not think the metaphor fantastical, for that describes one weekend's costume parties back in 1897. It was all very extravagant. In truth, it still is; perhaps abysmally so. Yet this war enlisted many soldiers, and not all of them were the elite.

Throughout it all, "dear George" was at Grandmother's side, forcing informality through his steady English countenance as all the other butlers made fun of his mistress. Apparently the servant class in New York was as exclusive as the 400, and Grandmother's staff had a difficult time garnering acceptance within their own community. It was rough going, George tells me in a moment of candor; that is, until victory became apparent.

For history will likely come down on Sassy's side, her daring and insouciance presaging the increasing lack of ceremony in all aspects of society. In retrospect, those Gay Nineties parties seem to be on the cutting edge. Or rather, on the edge of a knife on Grandmother's dining table, turned fashionably askew.

R.C.


	7. Hangovers

August 1919 - Newport III: Hangovers

The entire family is fanatical about quail. And I do not mean to hunt or to eat. We sit on the shaded terrace overlooking the ocean, a cool sea breeze washing over us in a contest with the lemonade for superior refreshment, and the entire afternoon's conversation has centered around the clan of quail that populates the side garden, roaming free on the grounds.

Discovered by a young Carnegie or Rockefeller on a visit to the house earlier in the season, the bird's nest burrowed between the rosebushes has yielded eight or so new occupants for Cliffside. The baby birds are about an inch and a half small, and provide endless diversion as we watch them frolic across the paving stones and search the soil for worms. This is what passes for daytime entertainment in Newport.

If I were to offer an opinion, I would deem the clacking of typewriter keys perhaps a better use of time than ornithology, but I seem to be the only one to feel very strongly about it. The rest are content to coo and caw over the adorable offspring – even my hardened heart has to warm at the one little bird that just cannot seem to clamber over the low stone edging around the garden to join its siblings in their hunt for food. Grandmother helpfully gives the bird a nudge with her magazine and it ascends the tiny wall with great zeal; "You're welcome," Sassy calls out in her brash Midwestern accent.

If you are searching for an explanation for this peculiar form of afternoon tedium, may I direct you to the many empty shelves in the wine cellar. Trucks arrive to Newport houses almost daily to resupply what was imbibed the night before, yet even the most prolific vendor cannot keep pace with the alarming consumption of Rhode Island this summer. As the Volstead Act, aimed at making liquor illegal in America, works its way through constitutional system, the elite try to stock their cellars in vain – for no one can keep a bottle sealed for very long. The attitude of 'enjoy it while you can' is rampant, although the validity of the word 'enjoy' usually comes into question by the next morning. Thus our limited capacity for conversation, and this newfound hobby of bird-watching.

The event that led to my current fogginess was, ironically, a gathering for The Anti-Saloon League. The August parties in Newport begin in one mansion and end at quite another, with many stops along the way, so you can find yourself celebrating both prohibition and alcoholism within the span of a single hour. And while prohibition may eventually win the war, it lost the battle yesterday evening.

Your Publisher has let you down with his feeble recollections – my journalistic instincts retreated in the face of this army of American revelers. I remember the following, in no particular order: Grandmother, a widow aged 70, engaging in a serious flirtation with a polo player from Spain entering his sophomore year at Harvard; The Lady, on key despite the out-of-tune piano, treating us to a rendition of _Jazz Baby_ accompanied by someone who has likely never touched an instrument before; myself, pouring yet another drink while negotiating an ill-advised business venture in the form of a goat farm in Wisconsin. We can only take comfort in the fact that everyone else was even further gone than we were, and perhaps their recollections are as spotty as our own.

Be warned, should you find yourself in Newport in the dog days of summer: things will not end well. As our party bounded from house to house, we lost track of everywhere we went – Grandmother is still puzzling out to whom she should send a thank you note and who deserves a message of apology. The Lady suddenly thinks prohibition is a grand idea and plans to support it wholeheartedly, should she ever get out of bed. And the Publisher? I have a column to write, yet I sit on the terrace watching quail.

If you are headed to America any time soon, heed my advice and avoid high society. I also suggest you turn to the classifieds for an unprecedented business opportunity – there are about four hundred goats for sale, and if you mention this column, I will give you a discount.

R.C.


	8. Teacups

September 1919 - Newport IV: Teacups

Newport is a town run by wives. Husbands spend weekdays at their desks; sons and daughters are off driving fast cars down country lanes. Hence, Newport during the week is a particular kind of society involving endless planning and administration.

The town's matrons run their houses like corporations; their budget for the eight weeks of the season equal to what a small company would be pleased to hold on their the balance sheet for an entire year. They manage personnel, they direct long-term planning, they supervise all transactions, they coordinate inventory with distribution. In short, these women are chief executives of their own empires, and I would be pleased to have any one of them in my upper management. I suspect my own organization may benefit from such diligence and precision.

With such strong roles for women, it is no surprise that Newport is one of the centers of the suffrage movement. Only two months ago the Senate endorsed the vote for women, but there is still work to be done – the amendment is now up for a majority of states to approve.

The hub of activity is Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt's Marble House, where rallies and fundraisers are often held. On sunny summer days, she flings open the doors to anyone willing to pay two dollars for a cup of tea and a speech, and while many are here to support the cause, many more are simply curious to see the opulence of the Newport mansion they usually only peer at through the gates. No matter, Mrs. Vanderbilt supposes; if they hand over their money to her particular kind of circus, then she has succeeded for the day.

The Chinese tea house perched on the cliff at the edge of the sea is the center of activity. The Lady questions the authenticity of its red and green splendor, but we both agree it is certainly picturesque. As a guest speaker in a wide-brimmed hat addresses us with facts and figures about female empowerment, I observe that she is likely preaching to the converted, but The Lady is not so sure as she glances around to appraise the audience. The mostly women and a few men who populate the lawn do not look like your average blue-blooded reformers. On the whole, they seem more like a conservative sampling of the town's year-round middle-class population, The Lady points out, and perhaps this is their introduction to the cause.

Having heard many versions of this speech before, I wander back to the main house with one question in mind. For every fifty guests sipping tea from china emblazoned with the phrase "Votes for Women," there is likely a single kitchen maid that must clean each blue and white dish – does the phrase lose all meaning after the thousandth teacup is washed and dried?

"Oh, I support the cause, sir, I do," a young girl in uniform tells me outside the servant's entrance, weighed down with a tray of empty cups and saucers and looking quite afraid to be caught speaking to a guest. "Because when I get to vote," she whispers conspiratorially, "I am going to vote for the worker's party and we'll form a union."

So the strange alliances continue. Prohibitionists wed themselves to suffragettes; the suffragettes in turn ally with the elite, who proceed to work very hard only to liberate their servants from their own employ.

I recount the conversation to The Lady on the drive home. She finds it exasperating that while women in America will likely be able to vote regardless of age or class, at home, The Lady cannot vote until age thirty and a female servant with no property cannot vote at all. But she is inspired by Mrs. Vanderbilt's presentation. "If all it takes to effect change is a tour of a big house," she suggests with a gleam in her eye, "then perhaps we ought to draft ours into service."

Take notice, curiosity-seekers; you may be attending a feminist rally in Yorkshire very soon. We had better stock up on teacups.

R.C.

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I want to share a couple of reader responses to last week's column:

"_Sir – Be glad you managed to escape Newport with only a heard of goats. I emerged from my last summer there with a seat on the board of the St. Louis philharmonic, the deed to a steamship resting on the floor of Boston harbor, and an American wife – the last of which means I am forced to return to Rhode Island every year in perpetuity. Perhaps Newport is where businessmen of the United States go to unload the year's shoddy deals on us unsuspecting foreigners? Count your blessings; or rather, your goats. Mr. Blaine, London" _

Mr. Blaine – I wish you luck with your latest undertakings. In the style of an American businessman in Newport, should we encounter each other next year on Bellevue Avenue, I have a farm you might be interested in purchasing.

"_Sir – Regarding your new investment. Perhaps The Lady can turn goat-hair coats into the latest fashion for winter? Mr. Nelson, Bath" _

Mr. Nelson – Your suggestion was met with enthusiasm, although The Lady demands compensation for such an endeavor. In the event her newly-formed financial independence leads us to divorce, I intend to blame you.


	9. Suitcases

**AN: Yes, me again. Back from vacation. Posting more Mary/Richard. (I can't help it – even as S3 is beginning, all I want is more Richard Carlisle!) **

**AN2: Now that we've met the real Martha Levinson on Downton, I just wanted to remind everyone that my version of Grandmother (nickname: Sassy) was made up based on speculation before S3 started, so for the purposes of this fic, she won't match up with the actual character. **

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September 1919 – Newport V: Suitcases

The season is over. The dazzling people are gone. The sound of hammering echoes down Bellevue Avenue as workman board up the spectacular houses, their marble facades reduced to plywood, the electric lights that shone so brightly for a fleeting moment now extinguished. Out, out, brief candle –

"And thank the Lord Almighty for that," Sassy exclaims with a dusting off of her hands. "One more party and I'd be like a frog in a fishing hole: ready to croak!"

So much for my poignant monologue.

We are all three of us squished into the front bench seat of the Isotta, the backseat being occupied, as is the boot, with countless cases of all sizes and shapes. This represents a mere fraction of both The Lady and Grandmother's wardrobes, most of which is, at this very moment, being loaded on a train car chartered expressly for the purpose to head for New York. What is currently weighing down the poor Isotta is only the bare necessities for a weekend in Boston.

Grandmother has decided to catch a lift with us instead of returning home immediately, content to impose on the hospitality of her friends to the North as they have been doing with her all summer. "They should return the favor," she says with that peculiarly American attitude of fairness – even a warm welcome here has an exchange value.

The difficulty is that the Isotta is barely built for two, if one is to count all the possessions we have accumulated. After much debate on the subject, The Lady and I decided to forgo any staff or additional vehicles on our American journey – a convoy of luggage and servants is neither scenic nor conducive to adventure. However, the result is a rather limited capacity for both our things and ourselves, and adding a third person to the mix will make for an uncomfortable five-hour drive. But Grandmother does not seem to mind.

For The Lady this liberation is her first time away from such luxuries; for the Publisher it is an unwelcome return. For Grandmother it is rather like everyday life, for she has a remarkable independent streak that wants nothing to do with hired help; she employs her staff with the utmost reluctance and sends them away at will.

In this way, Sassy exemplifies that can-do American spirit. How gratifying this self-reliance must be for the lower ranks of society: for every old money family, there are dozens newly-minted rich who pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. Upon arrival, these self-reliant individuals continue their efforts without depending on a servant underclass, which goes a long way to explaining the fluidity of American social rank. This is not a country of impotent envy, I find – the people on the bottom do not regard those at the top with stagnant malice. No, here every servant and laborer looks at their social betters and envisions him or herself in a similarly superior position. Many will achieve it, too, in that wonderful concept so unfamiliar across the pond called upward mobility.

I wonder if Grandfather, long gone, could have imagined such a future when he started his humble business in the previous century: innumerable cases of luxury goods, piled into the backseat of an ostrich-upholstered Italian automobile, parked in front of the mansion built with the proceeds of his hard work, the contents of the car being carefully inventoried with the shrew gaze of his unpretentious wife and the exquisite precision of his noble granddaughter. I could never have foreseen such a scenario myself, back in Morningside, Edinburgh, my troubles pleasantly reduced to something so trivial as how to correctly pack an Isotta Fraschini without leaving a trail of fashionable attire in our wake.

Not that leaving something behind would be a great tragedy. Though The Lady worked out a rather ingenious system for rotating out seasonal clothing by sending cases back and forth to New York by timetable – a feat which requires the organizational skills of a department store stockiest and the Prime Minister's secretary rolled into one – she continually buys more. Ordinarily I would not mind, except it is coming to the point when she will have to decide between one more suitcase or me. If she chooses as I think she may, my next column will be from a train on the way to Manhattan as I am rotated out with the summer clothes, exchanged for a model that takes up less space, and does not clack the typewriter keys long into the early hours of the American dawn.

R.C.

* * *

I want to share a reader response to last week's column:

"_Sir – I look forward to your universal suffrage rallies, though may I point out that when your wife is able to vote, she will also be able to run for Parliament. Should we expect next year's teacups to read 'Vote for The Lady?' Ms. Radcliffe, Yorkshire"_

Ms. Radcliffe – The Lady wouldn't dream of associating with elected politicians. I suspect her inevitable victory over the forces of oppression will lead her to the House of Lords, not the House of Commons, which, fortunately, has its own emblazoned china.


	10. Tours

**AN: Apologies if you happen to be from Boston - I actually quite like the city, I swear!**

* * *

September 1919 – Boston: Tours

If America is generally free from its history, then Boston is the exception. Here, amidst the colonial townhouses and flickering gas lamps, it is not unusual to pass on the cobblestoned street a man in a tricorne hat and breeches, claiming to be Benjamin Franklin or George Washington or Thomas Jefferson. These poor souls are not deluded, as you might think, destined for a sanitarium after being seduced by the historic atmosphere of the city into thinking they are in fact in the 17th century – no, this is yet one more example of American ingenuity, turning history into spectacle and legend into profit.

This is a city as steeped in its own mythology as the oldest colleges at Oxford and Cambridge, and, like England's august institutions, it thrives on the retelling of such mythology ad nauseam for audiences of duty-bound ladies and gentlemen, bored children, and one very bored Publisher. Just as I have always considered England held back by its history, Boston too I believe is caught in the past, and this city's sightseeing reenactments hold no interest for me, no matter how much money they make for the holiday companies. Then again, as any of my former schoolmasters would tell you, I was never very good at history. So as our rented Benjamin Franklin, with his oxford shoes and department store wristwatch, recounts to our tour group the process behind his invention of bifocals, I resort to exchanging silly faces with the four-year-old peering at me over his father's shoulder – at least until The Lady hits my arm and tells me to stop being a bad influence.

This is a country that does not rest on its laurels, I want to protest as we pause on the sidewalk between a telephone box and a streetcar and Benny, as we're encouraged to call him, spins tales of letterboxes and horses. America is constantly innovating, constantly changing – letters become telegrams, horses become automobiles, and soon enough both of these will evolve into something else. Yet on the streets of Boston, no matter what replaces our current milieu, there will still be some idiot in a three-pointed hat and stockings standing at this very corner, recounting the past to the boredom and perplexity of many a swindled tourist.

Franklin prattles on, and I calculate the tour company's profit margin: $3 per head ($2 for children) x 15 people x 31 tours a day (on the hour, every hour for each Founding Father, plus a candlelight ghost tour at night). Subtract the salary of the Founding Fathers, which cannot be very much – if salary is determined by value and skill, that is – and overhead like brochure printing and kickbacks to the local hotel concierge to lure unsuspecting guests. You can do the math yourself, dear reader, but all in all, I conclude they are doing quite well with this forced nonsense.

Benny ends his monologue, a shiny yellow pencil with a feather taped to the end poised mid-air to sign a tea-stained sheet of paper emblazoned with the words "Declaration of Independence" in ye olde typeface, and our bit of street theater has reached a new level of dramatics. The Americans in the audience feel obliged to look impressed, and a round of applause breaks out when he puts quill to parchment with all the gravity and pomp of a coronation. Even I get caught up in the moment – his signature on the liberating document means the travesty is finally over. Independence indeed.

I was outnumbered when The Lady and Grandmother both insisted, for very different reasons, that we take a historic walking tour. Two different factions, with completely different motivations, joining forces to strong-arm the minority: this strikes me as a far better living example of American democracy than our Founding Father attempts to provide. But my argument fell on deaf ears – The Lady wanted to cross off "historic tour by a costumed fool" from her list of American must-do's, while Grandmother insisted the only way to understand modern America is to appreciate its foundations.

As a group of exuberant teenagers zooms past us in a Packard convertible without a second glance, I wonder if they know or care that the man coercing our attention discovered the electricity that powers their motor. Somehow I doubt it, in this country of perpetual progress; I take comfort in the idea that these young Americans are far too busy contemplating the road ahead to bother with the rear-view mirror.

R.C.


	11. Murders

October 1919 – Chicago: Murders

The sound of the gunshot echoes throughout the room.

By the fireplace, a man dressed in evening attire stumbles backwards, colliding with the modernist black marble mantle with a force that mirrors the impact of the bullet that struck him, cause and effect never so clearly delineated as in the pooling red spot that quickly overtakes the shock of white shirt visible beneath his waistcoat.

Across the way – and almost simultaneously – a handcuff surrounds the trembling wrist that holds the smoldering gun, the silver metal of the device blurring momentarily with the platinum of the delicate diamond bracelet it rattles against.

No one is sorry to see the dead man felled, for he was not, in life, the most upstanding of gentleman. Nor is anyone surprised to see the murderess apprehended – though perhaps in this town they should be. And no one is very sad for either of them. This was the inevitable conclusion of their adventure, the gossips will say, preordained from the start: two people such as they could never survive America and each other in the dusk of this decade of confusion and strife, driving blindly into a future as uncertain as the darkest midnight.

Except the future is not very dark at all; this much is clear when the house lights blaze once more and the applause starts, the actors taking their bows in spite of impediments like handcuffs and bullet wounds. The Lady and I join in with enthusiasm – the play was excellent – and soon enough find ourselves carried out with the crowd into the vibrant, gritty streets of Chicago.

Yes, we're still alive and well – no small feat in this city of violence. For if The Lady had indeed finally snapped, driven to distraction and then homicide by my late-night typing, this would be the place to do it: Chicago may be America's second city, but it is first in murders.

I mention this to the bartender when we return to the hotel for a drink, and I am greeted with a rather murderous look myself. My cardinal error, he informs me as he busies himself hacking lemon wedges with great enthusiasm, is not in mentioning the outsized crime rate – of that Chicagoans seem unduly proud – but of trying to compare Chicago and New York in the first place. This is the ultimate sin, and it appears to be the only criminal act the local population does not tolerate.

Chicago and New York are two different animals, the bartender says in what amounts to a very long lecture with one central tenant: New York is the peacock, strutting with its plumage on display to all, while Chicago is a swan, its subtle charms appealing to a more sophisticated eye willing to look beyond garish ornamentation.

He says this with the rehearsed cadence of a long-disappointed parent, accustomed to making allowances for his underachieving offspring – yes, the child has problems now, but had such potential once upon a time. I get the feeling this conversation occurs frequently across the mahogany bar, travelers passing through unable to avoid the comparison between America's two great cities and, in this competitive society, finding it impossible not to rank them. In that ranking, Chicago is the silver medal, the runner-up, always a step behind – in the local vernacular: "A day late and a dollar short."

But that's not exactly true. This is the city that invented the skyscraper, a city that successfully competes with New York in fields such as advertising and theater, and leads New York in another very important statistic: Chicago is first in_ unsolved_ murders too. It seems the only felonies that do get resolved are the fictional ones on stage – in real life, three-quarters of homicides in Chicago are never closed.

This means that, should I succeed in driving her crazy, The Lady could be discovered over my corpse clutching the mother-of-pearl handle of a smoking revolver, and she would still have a 75% chance of getting away with it. Her eyes seem to brighten at this particular realization.

As she weighs these odds, I resolve to type silently and at a more reasonable hour. And as she questions the bartender for further information about these statistics, I am left to contemplate not only the differences between Chicago and New York, but to wonder if The Lady knows how to procure a weapon, and just how worried I should be.

R.C.


	12. Paintings

October 1919 – Colorado: Paintings

"Goodness," The Lady gasps as she dips a toe in the inky blue waters of the lake, "it might as well be solid ice!" She kicks the surface to illustrate her point, the droplets catching the light as they fly into the air and shower down, sparkling like metallic confetti before dewing on the surface of her black velvet dress.

It probably _was_ solid ice, not too long ago, this particular lake nestled in the magnificent Rocky Mountains of Colorado being fed by the melted snow that tops the jagged peaks around us and apparently never defrosts entirely, despite the unseasonable warmth and the glare of the sun.

It is a spot of almost unnatural beauty, so perfectly composed is the tableau before us. It reminds me of the great estate gardens of England, where the landscape is carefully manipulated to look like perfect nature, when in reality it is highly planned. But even the titans of the American Midwest who choose to vacation here do not have the power or money to arrange mountains simply to suit their mood, so we accept the theatrical topography as part of the richness of America itself – a richness that Americans are never hesitant to exploit.

This probably explains the popularity of this particular resort. Dotted around the lake are numerous log cabins nestled within groves of pine trees belonging to the best and brightest families from the middle of the country who come to partake in the flawless scenery. Although 'cabins' may be a humble word – some are grander than others, and some are quite grand indeed. But all are made of local timber and accented with homey stone fireplaces and back porches fenced with netting, which perhaps adds to the unnatural effect of an invented vista.

The town does not help either: down the lane is an Old West Main Street that seems borrowed from a moving picture about cowboys and Indians. Wooden storefronts with signs that say 'Saloon' and 'General Store' line the boardwalk, and, though the dirt road is populated by cars instead of horses, the impression is hardly interrupted by the modern technology. In fact the automobiles elevate the outpost from tourist trap to authentically useful commercial hub, proving this a frontier town that has survived wilder days and eased into comfortable middle age.

You would be forgiven for thinking the lake and its little town are an image and nothing more; the setting is so picturesque it seems to belong to a reality of wistful propaganda paintings that the American government commissioned to advertise western expansion to Easterners in search of their own piece of manifest destiny. The Lady and I saw an exhibit of such paintings in Chicago – the work paraded landscapes similar to our current backdrop with all the glory of a Turner sunrise and the drama of a Brueghel battle. These oversized canvases depicted a world of perfect dreams, ragged lands that could be conquered by the indomitable American spirit if only one had the courage to try, unending opportunity around the bend of every magnificent river, and all accompanied by the implied tagline 'You could call this home.' Some people obviously took up the challenge, claiming their piece of the dream in this cozy mountain town.

But we are just passing through, indulging in this particular dream for only a weekend. We perch on the edge of a rickety dock, surrounded by grey serrated mountains in all directions that embrace the lake like a ring of smoke around a crystal ashtray, daring each other to plunge a whole foot into the icy water, when it starts to rain. The cloud that is the cause has yet to obscure the sun, and the tiny droplets sparkle as they dance across the glassy surface in ever-increasing circles that appear with a plop and fade away into others with as little consequence as a whispered word or a quiet sigh.

"Good thing we didn't take out a boat," The Lady says as she unfurls an enormous red umbrella to shelter us from the storm. Personally I wouldn't have minded, drifting across a shimmering lake reflecting the orange and gold of the fall leaves on its shattered mosaic surface. As it is, from the sidelines, the symphony of color and texture appears before us as it may have looked in one of those commissioned paintings from the previous century, shafts of light streaming through the clouds and clashing with the rocks to create geometric forms in the shadows of the peaks. Curiously, those paintings never featured people, only landscape.

As we sit side by side above the freezing lake, I know what kind of painting I would have commissioned to advertise the West, and the sublime landscape would play but a minor role. For at the edge of an old wooden pier, there would be an elegant girl with a black dress and a red umbrella, laughing as she splashes water in my direction. Manifest destiny indeed.

R.C.


	13. Funfairs

October 1919 – San Francisco: Funfairs

"We're not that high up," I reassure The Lady as she peers uncertainly over the edge to the ocean waves crashing below. Despite her protesting expression, the rickety cart continues to ascend into the cloud cover, which is really a bank of fog rolling in from the sea, partially veiling both the California sunshine above and the solid ground below.

"The _structure_ is not tall," she corrects, knuckles white as she grips the bar in front of us, "but it happens to be perched on top of a cliff, which makes it seem quite elevated indeed."

This much is true.

"And it is constructed of nothing but plywood and nails," she continues.

This is also accurate.

"In a city known for earthquakes."

Perhaps she is right to worry.

But there is nothing we can do about it now. "The good news," I remark as the enveloping mist obscures all vision outside of a two-foot radius, "is that now you can't see exactly how high we are anymore."

She seems to find this comforting for a moment. That is, until her eyes widen with the realization of one more crucial fact. "That means we won't see when-"

The Lady does not get to finish her sentence, as the very eventuality she had feared occurs, and her steady aristocratic tone transforms into a decidedly common shriek when the rollercoaster dives to the ground at an alarming speed before soaring skyward again into the clouds.

The ocean-side amusement park is a hallmark of American culture – there is Coney Island in New York, the boardwalk of Atlantic City, and in San Francisco, there is Chutes-at-the-Beach. It may have the worst name of all the parks but it is probably the most scenic, nestled amongst the haze-shrouded rocky shore of the Pacific, overlooking a beach that stretches far along the seemingly illimitable California coast.

Not that we can see much from our mobile vantage point. We are batted to and fro as the cart staggers around a sharp curve, the centrifugal force of the ride propelling The Lady in my direction and her elbow accurately colliding with my ribs. I can only assume this gesture is intentional, her meager revenge for allowing me to talk her into visiting this particular attraction.

There was no choice, because I had to see an example of an American theme park for myself. Such an institution is a testament to capitalism, to boundless opportunity, to the heedless laissez-faire: only in this great entrepreneurial country can any investor with a troop of builders and a plot of land construct such shambolic amusements, and only in this great consumer society will people pay to risk their lives on such hazardous delights.

Yet to my disappointment, the amusement park has thus far proven to be less than amusing. Our preliminary mistake, perhaps, was to try the fair's most famous attraction first – in retrospect, this waterslide called 'Chute-the-Shoots', which culminates with an enormous splash in a saltwater lagoon, would have been best left to the end, so we would not have to face the chilled ocean breezes shivering in wet clothes. A swing ride called 'The Whip' was equally ill-thought out, at least as a direct follow-up to an all-American lunch of hot dogs and cotton candy. And your Publisher cannot even bear to recount the trauma of 'Dodg-Em,' as it turns out The Lady is even more dangerous behind the wheel of a funfair bumper car than her reckless helming of the Isotta would suggest.

But at least we have souvenirs. The Lady put the local residents to shame when she showed off her country estate rifle skills, bagging more tin ducks than anyone else in the shooting gallery, and was rewarded for her efforts with a dreadful chalk figurine of a doe-eyed flapper. My struggle to achieve similar results in the baseball throwing booth was less successful, though I managed to win her a lopsided-looking stuffed bear.

The man who built this permanent carnival, Arthur Looff, claims that these are "clean, safe, moral attractions." I am not sure what morality has to do with it, and they appear to be clean enough. But as the rollercoaster dips and jerks and flings us around, I would probably question the safety part of his claim.

So we are both grateful when our cart comes to a screeching halt at the wobbly wooden platform. The Lady disembarks quickly, and we resolve to try one final ride before returning to our hotel, heading to the relative security of the Ferris Wheel for a more static view of the park and its entertainments.

Looking down on it from above, the roller coaster does not appear so tall or intimidating, and we can see the tiny carts dashing in and out of the fog in a manner that looks almost fun. From up here, it is easier to understand Mr. Looff's second claim for Chutes-at-the-Beach: that there are more than a thousand laughs to be had at his seaside amusements. But then an unholy creak seems to shake the very foundations of the giant metal cylinder we occupy, and I wonder if these laughs are all at the customer's expense.

R.C.


	14. Smugglers

October 1919 – Santa Barbara: Smugglers

Prohibition is wonderful, I think as I sip one of the finer cognacs I have encountered on our journey thus far. The Lady opts for a gin martini, and we toast to the Volstead Act on its first night in force in the United States.

The drunken revelers at this celebration in its honor seem rather enthusiastic about the whole thing. "You and me, buddy," the man to my right slurs, slapping my shoulder several times too many. "We're gonna make a _fortune_." Like Cinderella's carriage turning into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight, this humdrum accountant has miraculously transformed into the 20th century reincarnation of Blackbeard the Smuggler, at least in his own mind.

"You're from Scotland, right?" he asks. "_Right?_ So see, you're going to import lots and lots of…" he struggles to find the word. "Scotch!" he exclaims at length, marveling at his own recall. "And we're going to sell it to _all these suckers _at twice – three times! – the normal price." His eyes go blank for a moment. "Excuse me," he says as he staggers back to the bar.

The Lady watches his departure, unmoved. "So much for our dream of untold riches."

"We'll have to content ourselves with a newspaper empire for now," I say with a regretful shake of my head. I do hate to miss an opportunity.

Liquor is now illegal in America, cries of 'unenforceable!' and 'undemocratic!' be damned. Here in the land of the free, never again will any citizen awake to a hangover; no longer will the younger population sacrifice their morals at the feet of demon rum. And so arrests the perilous slide of American youth into hedonism, undoubtedly to be replaced by days passed studying in the library and evenings playing parlor games with mother and father in the warm safety of home.

To my eye, the bars have yet to be turned into libraries. The one we are currently occupying seems utterly unaffected by the law; the only apparent change is the prices on menus so new that the ink is barely dry. A cup of tea is priced at double what it cost yesterday; orange juice is even more expensive. The Lady has worked out the code: juices are the equivalent of whatever they mix best with, so orange juice equals vodka while lime juice equals tequila. The single malt spirits are listed under teas according to letter – Darjeeling is Drambuie, white tea is whiskey. But you do not have to speak this particular language to quench your thirst, for you can merely order your preferred drink at the bar by its proper name and receive some approximation of it.

So the people truly injured by the Volstead Act are not the bartenders, obviously. But having spent the last days driving down the California coast, The Lady and I have had the chance to observe the plight of the vintner. These winemakers, a new breed of American farmer from the last two decades or so, are only just beginning to compete with their European counterparts, only to have their hopes of an American wine industry dashed by the recent amendment.

We stopped at one winery just off the main road in Monterey as the law was approaching its first day, the plywood sign hastily scrawled with the words "Drink up while you can!" too intriguing to miss.

"I planted the first of this crop myself," explains the owner, an American Francophile who discovered winemaking while on Grand Tour across the Continent. "I snuck the clippings over from France in my suitcase. Everyone said I couldn't grow Cabernet Franc grapes in this climate, but I stuck with it. And do you know what?" he asks with a knowing nod. "Last year my best Cabernet won a gold medal in a European wine competition."

Now the man with the French-style pencil moustache and the excellent Cabernet is facing oblivion. He cannot sell his product, though through clever manipulation of the system he has managed to get a coveted permit to manufacture wine for sacramental purposes – the priests of California can look forward to a gold-medal ritual. He is also anticipating a jump in his grape sales, as a loophole in the Volstead Act allows individuals to make their own wine in small quantities. But his dream of a competitive American wine industry is gone.

Yet, as in all tragedies, there is profit to be had, at least for us. The Isotta is now weighed down with luggage_ and_ wine, and we believe our newly-acquired cases of winning Cabernet will make us rather popular among the Hollywood set.

Perhaps there is something to this smuggling business after all.

R.C.


	15. Mansions

November 1919 – Los Angeles I: Mansions

As much as The Lady and I like to cry poverty over our reduced circumstances of travel – a single car and no servants has left us feeling bereft – we find this complaint usually comes out over dinner at a grand mahogany table under chandeliers dripping with crystal and glittering intricate patterns across the elaborate gilt and marble dining rooms of the American rich. For despite our lowly circumstances and meager belongings, we have been lucky enough to be welcomed at the finest houses wherever we go. It is to the point where we both feel we have become experts on that peculiar species of American architecture: The Mansion.

The Mansion is a foreign concept to Britain. We have estates and townhouses, cottages and flats, but not very much in between. Leave it to America to fill this gap in the market.

It is fair to say The Mansion is an invention. Most are modeled on the European country estate, with many of its hallmarks: gates, long driveways, landscaped grounds. Yet The Mansion remains, in essence, a house. Most exist on small plots of land in newly-developed neighborhoods, next door to other mansions. Most are recently built, though they are designed to appear ancient.

In their faithful, earnest recreations of the Continent, these houses represent both the bourgeois aspirations of the nouveau riche, and the cultural aspirations of a nation that has yet to find its own artistic identity. So they borrow from patrician European homes as a shorthand for respectability. Yet California is the exception.

Despite what you may have heard, there is no gilt in Beverly Hills. There are no cherubs looking down from the corners of high moldings, no harp-playing goddesses occupying the ceiling. If anything, these houses are more like monasteries or rustic farmhouses, where bare wooden beams crisscross cathedral ceilings and humble clay tile covers the floors. Iron replaces gold; stucco replaces marble. They are all the better for their lack of aspiration.

You could attribute this aesthetic preference to California's Spanish heritage, perhaps, but I think it is due simply to a different orientation: the elite of this state do not wish to imitate the grandeur of the European aristocracy. Here, they cast off traditional good taste in favor of elevating a different kind of style, sophisticated in the amalgamation of high and low to create an individual appeal we have not seen in any other city.

And appealing it is, at least to us. Tired of endless hotel rooms, The Lady and I decided to shun the Beverly Hills Hotel in favor of renting our very own house – or mansion – setting up camp for a welcome bit of rest from constant travel, content to spend the holidays here in California.

Our temporary home is a sprawling magenta pink Mediterranean hacienda that exists somewhere between Spanish and Italian, with a bit of Moorish thrown in for good measure. It is nestled in the hills above Sunset Boulevard, just high enough to afford a front-row seat to the endless orange tree groves of the flatlands being quickly paved over to make way for the avenues of this rapidly-expanding metropolis – it seems every morning a new road appears.

The house has several wings and several stories descending up and down the hillside, though the level heart of it borders a lush courtyard. Colonnaded walkways give way to dense foliage of every variety so green it is difficult to believe we are in the middle of the desert. And this is just a preview of the back garden, which occupies the surrounding hills in complex paths that emanate out in every direction, leading to private terraces and hidden hamlets.

The Lady adores the gardens, as they are the antithesis of the English variety – neither formal nor pasture. Instead they seem ancient in a way no one could explain for a house less than six years old, as if they were planted centuries ago and have not been tended to since, our own little piece of Babylon. The house itself is like living in an old California mission, inflated to the proportions of a cathedral – the humble clay and oak may be plain, yet they form the grandest of rooms to rival the sets of the Cecil B. de Mille picture in which the house's owner frequently stars.

We have yet to explore all the sprawling house has to offer, from the Chinese smoking room to the medieval wine cellar. As for the maze-like grounds, rumor has it there is a tennis court somewhere out there in the overgrown jungle, and I often require a compass on expeditions to the outdoor swimming pool. Fortunately, when one gets too lost looking for the stables or the Japanese tea house, home can usually be spotted by climbing the nearest stone staircase for a better vantage point – the fuchsia stucco cladding of the main house is difficult to miss amongst the green and golden hills. Though getting back there is a different story.

R.C.


	16. Houseguests

November 1919 – Los Angeles II: Houseguests

He goes by the nickname of Bucky and he is a film star, one of great stature and gravitas that you, dear reader, will likely have seen on the silver screen at some point in the last year. He usually favors action movies and the occasional comedy, though he has been known to make a token appearance in a drama every once in a while too. His name never quite makes it to the top of the marquee – that billing is saved for the glamorous young things that draw in the audiences. But it is Bucky that keeps your attention when he appears, propelling the action forward in some astounding stunt that leaves you amazed and wanting more.

Bucky lives with us, in one of the guest houses, and he and your Publisher do not get along. Perhaps this is jealousy on my part – The Lady is most lavish with her attentions to this third resident of Miradero Road, and I am sure he has the advantage. As for Bucky, I prove a most inadequate substitute when The Lady is absent, and he is always dissatisfied with my company. So we generally resolve to avoid each other.

This is not always possible, however, such as those instances when The Lady insists on riding down to the Beverly Hills Hotel, our little hamlet's unofficial town hall and social center, and she simply cannot go without Bucky. It will be a chance for him to catch up with his friends, she pleads, and he does get so lonely when he is not at work on a film. As always, I give in. And instantly regret it.

Morningside, Edinburgh taught me many skills, and some of those lessons were harder than others. But there was nothing in my education that could possibly prepare me to deal with the confounding whims and mercurial demands of a horse. Add to that the fact that this is a prima donna movie star horse, spoiled and expert in getting his own way, and I am ready to call around in search of a glue factory. I think Bucky knows this, and he is taking it out on me.

For The Lady, though, he has nothing but devotion. On most any given morning, they can be found together roaming the lanes and trails of our community, dropping in on the neighbors – they stop by Greenacres for a game of tennis or Pickfair for some canoeing in the pool (a completely normal pastime in Hollywood, I am assured.) Later, they might venture further afield along the bridle path to town.

So we come to Bucky's one limiting feature: he prefers dirt to asphalt, and the city of Beverly Hills has only extended their horse trails to the edge of town. I consider this rather convenient; it means he cannot infringe on my territory. For I can be usually be found beyond this artificial border, past the point where the bridle paths give way to fresh tarmac and the geometric plots of land sprawl into unfettered open space – The Lady may have Bucky and the hills but I have the Isotta and miles of wooden track called the Beverly Hills Speedway.

Not only is the track brand-new and state of the art, it offers excellent training opportunities to prepare for the Santa Monica Road Race, a 300 mile course with a radically shortened track through the streets of the quaint beach town. I am told the residents are starting to protest both the noise and the danger, so the next race may be the last and I want the Isotta to put on a good show.

Alas, I must abandon the car this morning in favor of my least favorite film star. We prepare to set off down one of the trails, The Lady plotting a course across the foothills that she has learned so well over our short time here, hatching a plan to cut through the undeveloped lots that sprawl over the ridges and valleys on our way to a poolside lunch on a sunny California day. Then she hands me Bucky's reigns with the suggestion that we get better acquainted, and the horse and I eye each other with suspicion – he clearly disapproves of my urban origins.

The Lady, on the other hand, might as well have been born in a stable, so she chooses an even more challenging animal, leaving Bucky to me with the rational that I cannot go too far off course with such a trained and disciplined creature for transportation. I counter that the Isotta is trained and disciplined enough for me. She grants that this may be true, but unlike Bucky, the Isotta does not contribute to the household income with a weekly paycheck from Paramount.

R.C.


	17. Costumes

November 1919 – Los Angeles III: Costumes

We call him The Mogul, a man of great stature and influence in the United States press. After a meteoric rise to prominence in newspapers, he is now branching out into motion pictures, newsreels, and perhaps even the upper reaches of government. He is my American counterpart in most respects; in fact, his career has been so similar to mine that seeing him is almost like looking in a mirror. "A funhouse mirror," The Lady likes to joke.

So he may not look the part. But he is one of a handful of people in this country with the power to set the political agenda, influence elections and direct society's moral compass. We should all be so lucky.

Not that such things matter very much in Hollywood, a place where the color of Miss Swanson's hair as she signs a new film contract counts for more than the color of Woodrow Wilson's face as he signs the Treaty of Versailles. Here, Versailles is just another movie set. Yet The Mogul speaks this language as fluently as the Washington jargon.

With his hostess The Comedienne, The Mogul is renowned for lavish parties the likes of which Newport and New York have never seen. It helps that Los Angeles is home to imaginations of great creativity that he can call upon to dream up ever more elaborate affairs; it also helps that The Comedienne possesses both soaring vision and resolute earthiness – the ketchup and mustard bottles on the table next to the champagne at every dinner party are a testament to this. Most importantly, the guest list never fails to dazzle.

The pair are most famous for their masquerade parties, and tonight's is indeed full of whimsy and famous faces. Populating the manicured gardens this November evening are any number of familiar stars: The Tramp, The Vamp, The Lover, The Brother, The Sweetheart, The Sheik and The dashing Swashbuckler. The Arab, The Pole, The Cowboy, the Troll, The Captain of the Flying Aces, and The Man of a Thousand Faces. The It Girl, The Queen, The Idol, The King, The Chase, The Dream; the list is obscene. (Forgive me, dear reader; I couldn't resist.)

Mingling with so many grand titles – bestowed by the fan magazines and studio press packets rather than any sovereign – The Lady and your Publisher feel somewhat less special. After all, a knighthood is hardly of interest when one is standing next to a man known across the globe as "The Glasses."

Compounding the confusion of identities, everyone is in costume. The Tramp arrived as Louis XVI; The Queen as a gypsy. The Mogul and his St. Nicholas ensemble are well-matched, as is The Comedienne and her clown suit. Less suitably, perhaps, your Publisher has transformed into a samurai, while The Lady makes an especially fetching geisha.

The Lady is indeed fond of kimonos, although showing off such a predilection to the world was not her original intention when she and The Comedienne decided to raid the wardrobe department of Fine Arts Studios. But one astute costumer deemed her fair complexion and obsidian hair ideal; as The Lady tells it, she was immediately bundled up in Japanese attire and hurried into the hair and makeup department.

Within the hour she found herself on a soundstage under hot theatrical lights, D.W. Griffith bellowing at her through a megaphone to "act more Chinese." If he had consulted me, I would have told him The Lady does not take orders happily or at all, but he had the pleasure of finding this out for himself when she stopped the filming to inform him that Chinese and Japanese were in fact two different cultures. Accuracy not being very crucial to the motion picture business, the director dismissed this as unimportant, and The Lady went back to pouring tea in the background of a vaguely Asian opium den as Richard Barthelmuss preached the message of the Buddha to Lillian Gish.

At the party, The Comedienne congratulates The Lady on her debut and proposes to host a screening party in her honor when the film is released; The Mogul offers her a screen test on the spot. The Lady flatly refuses both. She explains that after two days on set, trying unsuccessfully to maintain a serious expression behind her geisha makeup in the middle of this motion picture circus, Mr. Griffith decided her talents were no longer required. "I'm not very good at being inconspicuous," she clarifies.

So began and ended Madam Butterfly's acting career. At least she got to keep the costume.

R.C.

* * *

_AN: The film is 'Broken Blossoms,' in case you were wondering. And if the identity of The Mogul isn't obvious, here's a hint: "Rosebud."_


	18. Seconds

December 1919 – Los Angeles IV: Seconds

There is nothing more terrifying than a first-time driver.

Except, perhaps, a second-time driver. On a winding road. Over a rocky cliff. Above an ocean, whose waves crash loudly onto the jagged rocks far below like ever-present music signaling doom for an opera's ill-fated hero.

Though Don Giovanni never had a sports car to spirit him into the next life. Nor did he have an aristocrat, utterly secure in a lifetime's knowledge that she can do no wrong, in the driver's seat.

The Lady knows just enough to be dangerous, and for some reason is most insistent on practicing her newly-acquired driving skills on hairpin turns at precipitous heights. She claims it is "exciting." Indeed.

At least this kind of excitement is a welcome change from that of the normal Hollywood melodrama. For beyond that which they create in the form of moving pictures, there is not a lot of culture in Los Angeles – there is no opera, for instance. One enterprising soul founded a new symphony this year, bringing the city's total to two – a vast improvement, considering the site of the concert hall was nothing more than orange groves a few years ago. Sadly we just missed the first performance, but reviews indicate it would have been better had the company's first choice of director accepted the invitation to conduct; most spectators agree that unlike the current director, Rachmaninoff might have expected the orchestra to rehearse for longer than a week before their debut. The second performance, which we did attend, affirmed this impression.

Alas, the symphony's ragtag assembly is no different than the rest of this city, where most performers come straight from the vaudeville stage instead of the conservatoire, and fame graces the most photogenic over the most talented. So, then, it could be said this is a city of runners-up, second-rate performers for second-rate directors in second-rate companies. But perhaps I am just ill-tempered because the Isotta only placed second in the street car division of the Santa Monica Road Race last week.

This may explain my reckless move of acquiring a second vehicle, and the near suicidal compulsion to make a gift of it – only a Publisher truly on the brink of despondency would place the keys to a brand-new burgundy red Bugatti in The Lady's eager and unpredictable grasp, especially when she has driven only once before.

She demanded I teach her to drive all the way back in Newport, on a sunny afternoon and across relatively flat, albeit coastal, roads. The results were so distressing that I have not given her a second chance. Now, on the other side of the country, with even more frightening cliffs calling her name and a shiny new automobile in the driveway, she chooses a rainy day to renew her petition. She reiterates her opinion that all women should learn how to drive; I agree with her wholeheartedly. She argues that her sister is an excellent driver; I agree with this too. Her line of reasoning is in fact so difficult to fault that I forget why I do not want her behind the wheel in the first place.

Then I remember.

It is deja-vu in Technicolor as she takes another corner at breakneck speed and I repeat my oft-uttered suggestion that she drive a bit more to the left, away from the dead drop down to the Pacific on the right, and I have the unsettling realization that the eight-valve engine, when driven in the wrong gear as it presently is, sounds ominously similar to the murky D-minor chord that signals Don Giovanni's end. Though in the opera, I recall, it is fires of the underworld, not frothy ocean waves that await the protagonist.

If you happen to be an aspiring Mozart, dear reader, may I propose our scenario as one ideal for the bold and modern opera – forget the gods and Valkyries of Wagner and the forests and castles of Debussy; all you need for a dramatic libretto is a girl and a newspaperman and a Bugatti.

You needn't worry about the music, for that writes itself, appropriately discordant and contemporary: the breaks squeal as the clutch grinds and the engine growls in protest when the Lady inexplicably shifts to a higher gear and speeds up to take a blind curve, tires screeching against wet pavement and the driver giggling at the fun of it all, an operatic trill over the symphony of tumult. Though you may note the absence of a second voice – the passenger is not laughing.

R.C.


End file.
